One of the best things about the lockdown, apart from watching those re-runs of New Tricks, the best cop show ever except they are not real cops but old codgers who used to be cops, was ready access to our biscuit barrel.
The best biscuit tins contain two essential biccies – Wagon Wheels and Jammie Dodgers. They are both made at the same Edinburgh factory, which produces an amazing 7.5 million biscuits every single day. It’s not just me then.
The bad news is they may soon be in very short supply.
Burton Biscuits have offered their staff a measly 1.6% pay rise. Ooh, Maciver is being controversial, dipping his toe in the boiling waters of industrial relations, I heard you think.
Listen, without them there would be no Jammie Dodgers. They need backing. The workers want 7% to make up for what they call previous shortfalls, but negotiations are not going well. There is now talk of 24-hour walkouts.
The first could be around now, so there may be shortages. Now listen you lot, don’t you go hoarding Wagon Wheels and Jammie Dodgers and telling the food police that I gave you the idea.
I had enough trouble from those sanitary inspectors when I mentioned that a good place to hide toilet rolls on a Friday night was at the back of the fridge.
There will be plenty Wheels and Dodgers to go round if we don’t panic – maybe. Biscuits cheer everyone up. Biscuits are often given as a thank-you to someone – if you can’t afford chocolates.
As for me, I have discovered that I can negotiate with biscuits to get anything I really want. For instance, I offered an old lady in our street a box of biscuits for a go on her stairlift. I think she’s going to take me up on it.
Something else going up is the number of Covidiots. Police now estimate there is at least one in every street. A taxi driver was telling me he took one home in his cab the other night.
After he got in the back of the car, the Covidiot passenger took off his mask. When the driver asked him to put it back on, he said no, adding: “Driver, you are wearing a mask. If yours works, why do I have to wear mine?”
Instead of throwing him out, the driver told him that was a good point. He then promptly turned off his headlights and began weaving down Sandwick Road.
The passenger shrieked: “What are you doing? It’s too dark.” The driver replied: “Nah mate, don’t worry. All the other drivers have their lights on.”
He then stopped, turned round but the Covidiot had somehow decided to put his mask on again. Numpty.
Mrs X has become a nervous passenger. That’s her excuse for criticising my driving. By criticising, I mean using phrases like ‘Where have you taken us now?’ and ‘When did you say you’d passed your test?’.
Her other ruse is winding down the window and asking anyone she sees when the next bus back to Stornoway is as her driver is old and past it. Do you mean me? Hello?
That reminds me, I must say hello to Mrs Stewart. Years ago, I saw her in her garden wearing a mask while spraying her plants to keep off greenfly.
She said: “Masks are expensive. I’m using my old bra for a facemask. Much cheaper and roomier too.”
That’s Mrs Stewart for you.
I phoned her up to ask if she was using a bra for a mask now. She said: “Of course. I like to keep abreast of all Covid protection measures.”
Mrs Stewart cheers me up. She’s like a breath of fresh air. No, she really is – her first name is Gale.
She has been like that since we met 20 years ago. Remember the noughties? Back then, everyone used to laugh at Michael Jackson for wearing gloves and a mask.
With no mask or gloves, Mrs X offered to make a fry-up the other day. When I heard the sizzling, I ran in.
I said: “Be really careful there. Put in some more butter. Oh heck, you are cooking too many eggs at once. What about the tomatoes? You don’t want them half-cooked when the eggs are ready.
“Those mushrooms are a bit soggy. That bacon is burnt. Do you not want to put more on? Just so we are not eating through awful, disgusting charcoal again, you know? Go on, give it a try.”
She completely blew her top She threw down the egg turner and it went skiting across the kitchen floor.
Oh-oh. Then she gave me one of her perfectly crafted evil glares.
“What is wrong with you this morning?” she said. “Do you really think I don’t know how to make breakfast?”
I looked at her very calmly and replied: “No. I just wanted to show you what it feels like when I’m driving.”
